


The Center for the Holy Wars

by stardropdream (orphan_account)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-18
Updated: 2013-02-18
Packaged: 2017-11-29 18:36:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/690162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The United States of America does damage control.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Center for the Holy Wars

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on LJ August 22, 2009. 
> 
> I struggled writing this and then it took about a month for me to work up the courage to post this. I didn't want it to present as a sob-fest for the US. I also didn't want him to be overly sympathetic or unsympathetic. I didn't want this to read like a political manifesto, but I fear it may have turned out that way. I was more interested in illustrating the changing and evolving foreign relations between the United States and its allies/enemies. Most of the dialogue was borrowed from articles I read about the subject, in particular Spain and Russia.

“Okay, this isn’t so bad,” America said to himself, head lolling to rest against the window, looking out at the blue ocean below him. “Flying commercial is nice every once in a while. And saves money and resources and all that.” 

He glanced up and noticed the person he was sitting next to was giving him an odd look over the edge of his newspaper. They blinked at one another before America released a sigh.

“You know what I mean?” 

The man stared at him a moment before speaking in slow, calculated English, tinged with a thick Chinese accent. “I’m not sure I understood what you said.” 

“Oh, you’re one of China’s guys,” America muttered under his breath before smiling and waving his hand, racking his brain for the Chinese he’d collected over the years. It was sloppy, mispronounced, and lacking in proper grammatical fundamentals, but at least his point seemed to be getting across. He waved his hands to illustrate his point more. “I just saying it is good to fly coach some days, because it save money. Yeah?” 

The Chinese man nodded. “It is a good idea.” 

“Been long time since going to China. You from China?” America waited for the man to nod before continuing, even if he knew the answer already. “I barely got to see during Olympics.” 

“I see,” the man said politely, eyebrows knitting as he tried to work out what, exactly, America was saying in midst of sloppily spoken Chinese and spastically waving hands. 

“I’m going lots different places,” America said with a sigh. “China is the first stop!” 

“How many different places?”

America counted on his hands but then realized that he wasn’t sure, exactly, how many stops he’d be making. He also probably wouldn’t have known how to say the numbers anyway. “Hmm… lots!” 

“Why so much traveling?” the man surveyed the bomber jacket as he spoke, covering America’s pressed suit. He felt stupid wearing a suit on a plane, but it was easier to just wear it, otherwise it could just get wrinkled in his luggage (and his boss had warned him to look presentable on these trips). “Business?”

“Something like that,” America said, cracking a smile. “I gotta do some damage control.” 

 

\---

 

China’s house was always really warm, but lately it felt even warmer. He walked up towards the front door, his feet kicking up some grime left over from coal and ash. He shifted, shoved his hands into his pockets, and rocked back and forth from the balls of his feet to the heels. He felt entirely too warm in his jacket and suit. 

He knew what he had to do but damn it all if it wasn’t hard as hell to do it. 

America wasn’t used to this whole humility thing, but he’d made a promise to his boss, after all. And it wasn’t like he wanted the country to fail—they had more than enough problems as is. Everybody did. 

When China came to greet him, he smiled a smile that didn’t quite reach his face but still somehow seemed at least a bit genuine. He wore traditional Chinese clothing, unlike the suits he always wore to the world meetings. He moved through his house with ease, America traveling behind him. When he offered tea and America declined, he didn’t seem upset by it. They sat together in China’s backyard, surveying China’s garden, thick with bamboo and blossoming flowers. America started the meeting off as quickly as possible, leaning back against some cushions China had brought with him outside, a pot of tea between them, though only China drank. 

The afternoon drifted by as America discussed global climate change and carbon dioxide admissions. He still didn’t understand it all himself, but his boss had made sure he knew the basics, and had a briefcase of information sent with him—a briefcase which America had left in his rental car. But China seemed to understand what he was saying, in his sloppy, stuttering Chinese, and remained silent and didn’t interrupt as America collected his words. 

“I mean, you and I together produce the most…” he had to pause for the fifth time that conversation, because already he’d forgotten the word China had taught him for it. Swallowing his guilt, because he didn’t want to show such weakness to a country like China, he switched to English, “carbon dioxide and gases that cause climate change.” America, earnest, leaned forward and once again attempted to speak Chinese. “You and I… to need to work together. We can stop this so it not gets too far out of control.”

“Well, you are filled with quite a bit of hot air,” China quipped, seemingly fed up with America’s pathetic attempts at Chinese and switching to English. America felt his eyebrow twitch but then China cracked a small smile before America could get used to the feeling of insult settling in the pit of his stomach. “But you’re right. It wouldn’t do for the world to see me resisting something so serious.” 

America grunted, unsure whether he _should_ be insulted by the joke. Or if he should be insulted by the fact that China was doing it for international standing and not because of him. He agreed to do it to save face, not because he wanted to do what America wanted to do. 

But then again. He couldn’t really blame him. He would do the same thing, if it meant that maybe these countries wouldn’t hate him quite as much. He was shaking. He hated this whole diplomacy thing, but he also hated feeling hated. 

“Its’ a strange world we live in now,” China mused. “This modern era…”

“Huh?”

“I suppose you’re too young,” China continued absently and America had to bite back the urge to tell him that age had nothing to do with it—he was still great—but China continued, “It’s easier to notice things when you have more experience.” 

“I—”

“When you’ve lived longer, time just moves slower,” he said and sipped his tea. “I wonder how many of us really are eternal?” 

“Well…” America said and wasn’t sure if China was honestly asking or if this was some elaborate set up for a proverb. “If we don’t change how things are, who knows how long this world will last?” 

China angled him with a look, but didn’t deny that. He downed the rest of his tea and glanced out at his garden, where the bamboo seemed thinner than in recent years. 

“Offerings like this, America, are like rays of sunshine in a cloudy sky,” he said slowly, and then just as slowly turned back to look at America, his face hinting at a wan smile. “Perhaps we can make this world last longer.” 

America bit his lip, then gave him a rather awkward smile back. 

God. This was hard. 

 

\--- 

 

The flight out of China’s house, moving north and west towards Russia, was filled in relative silence. America felt like he couldn’t breathe, like his hands were shaking. His ears were ringing and for all he knew, the plane could be crashing and he wouldn’t have the slightest clue. Things seemed foggy. He wasn’t prepared for this. He thought he had been, thought he’d been prepared to grovel before these countries and let them know he was changing, for the better. 

When he glanced down, he saw the white knuckles grasping his knees and forced himself to relax. He clenched his eyes shut. 

_Humility,_ he reminded himself. _You can’t afford to be arrogant anymore._

He breathed out, slowly. “Shit.” 

The person he sat beside him glanced at him but said nothing. America gripped his hands together and tried to focus his mind away from China and towards Russia—

How the hell was that supposed to be comforting? 

 

\---

 

They’d been sitting in the room together for fifteen minutes, neither saying a word. Russia regarded him silently from across the table, cheek resting against a slightly curled fist. America sat on his hands, wondering when they’d started to feel sweaty. 

“A drink?” Russia offered. 

America shook his head. Thankfully for his nerves, his Russian was much better than his Chinese. “Still feel kind of sick from the plane ride over.”

“I thought you liked to fly,” Russia said lightly and as in the nature of Russia, it sounded as if he were saying something entirely different, veiled underneath his simple words. “You enjoyed it well enough during the war.” 

“Yeah,” America admitted and wondered why he shared that weakness in the first place. He was supposed to be strong, to show all these countries that he was just as good as them and—

Humble. He had to be humble. (He always had to remind himself of that.) 

America coughed into his hand. Weighed his words and wondered how much weight they actually did have. “There was more turbulence than usual.” 

Russia nodded, accepting this explanation before standing to pour himself a drink. He moved away, turning his back on America. America remained sitting, watching the way that Russia moved with careful, deliberate calm, yet with tensed shoulders. There was an open breeze filtering in through an open window and it brushed back Russia’s hair and scarf, making it look as if he were moving too far away, impossible to catch up to. 

“Did you mean it, when you said you wanted to restart our relations?” Russia asked after a lengthy silence, returning to his chair, newfound drink in hand. 

America’s lips straightened into a rather thin line, but he did nod. 

“I thought as much,” Russia said with a throaty laugh that almost didn’t sound disbelieving. 

America felt his lips thin further. “Why do you laugh?” 

“You’ll forgive me for being ambivalent,” Russia said, but sighed, taking a long drink from his glass. The smell of alcohol invaded America’s nose. 

“I get the feeling I’ll be getting that a lot,” America muttered to himself, in English. 

Russia gave him an all-knowing look and said in his thick accent, “Yes, I believe so.” 

America restrained his cringe. He couldn’t afford to show such weakness to Russia, who, while no longer his rival in the fight for the free world, was still just as mysterious and dangerous as he’d always been. Even if he wanted to make the relations between the two of them, America wasn’t so optimistic that he could let his guard down completely. 

“I am very ambivalent about your intentions,” Russia said, calm and careful in his words to the point where they almost sounded gentle. The smile was always unnerving on that face, as innocent and as cruel as any child. His eyes were as cold as his winters, and yet in the sunlight they looked as if they were struggling for a warmth that they’d once had. The air was thick with the sound of America’s beating heart and the stench of Russia’s liquor. Russia mulled over his words, nursing his drink with the care of a father for a son. “I am very ambivalent about your reasoning, and about whether you will follow through with your promises.” 

“I know my promises must not mean much to you,” America offered, folding his hands together and wishing they didn’t feel as sweaty and slick as they were. 

“For all your bravado and simplicity, you are a hard person—country—to understand at times,” Russia mused, swirling the vodka in his glass. 

“How’s…”

“And your standards go beyond double standards,” Russia continued as if America had not spoken. He slanted a look towards America, face innocent but words calculated and deliberate, “It’s a complete lack of standards.” 

“H-hey…” America began. 

“And even so. I don’t have very many choices. I don’t… have many friends.”

America managed to bite back the _And you wonder why?_ But just so. 

“But my people don’t trust you,” Russia continued on, and if he noticed the barely suppressed aggravation on America’s face, he didn’t let on. His hand passed over his scarf, tugging and tightening it around his neck, like a noose. “They believe you abuse your power and don’t have the ability to make right decisions.” 

“Look,” America said, swallowing down his anger and his shame—when had he learned to be ashamed—and trying to find the words he needed to say and hating that he had to say them in front of Russia of all people (countries). “Look I… I know that I’ve messed up a lot in the past and all that.” 

Russia didn’t say anything when America paused and he realized that Russia was waiting for him to continue. He wondered if Russia expected him to grovel. 

“I’ve messed up and I’m trying to fix it as best I can. There are some people in my country who think that I shouldn’t give in, that I should remain strong and independent but…” America bit his lip, worried it between his teeth before continuing, “There are more people who are sick of being hated.” 

“It may not be an issue of hatred more than it is indifference or displeasure. Rest assured that my people do not care about you,” Russia watched him over the rim of his glass as he pulled it up to his lips, draining it of the clear liquid he drank like water. “And it is similar for many in this world. There is hatred. There is love. But mostly, there is indifference. And in some ways, indifference can be worse.” 

America stared at him.

Russia sighed. “I, too, know what it is like to be hated, America. Do not forget that.” 

“… I know,” America said, and knew that he was one who’d hated Russia. They both knew it (the Cold War was too fresh). “Look,” he began, weighing his words once again. “I’m not doing this because I have some kind of self-esteem issue.” Maybe a little. “I’m doing this because it’s what my people want and what my new administration wants. I’m doing this because I think that you want it, too. You know… friends.”

“We are not friends,” Russia pointed out and rose to pour himself more vodka. 

America nodded. “I know.” 

Russia laughed into his glass, and the sound was soft and almost not there at all. 

“I know the last few years have seen that we’ve had a lot of disagreements,” America began, cautious and for once trying to find the proper words before he just blurted them out. “But I think that… if we start over, it could get better.” 

“It doesn’t always work like that,” Russia warned, but he didn’t sound like he disagreed, either. He closed his eyes for a moment before smiling slowly, and it somehow lacked that razor’s edge of danger he’d become accustomed to seeing on Russia’s face. “But it’s a nice thought.” 

 

\---

 

“Well, you look like you’ve seen a ghost,” France announced with a flourish when America knocked on his door. He learned forward and kissed both his cheeks and under normal circumstances, America would have had some kind of quid at weird Europeans and most especially France’s weirdness, but he was too tired to fight anymore. 

America’s face betrayed nothing but jetlag. “I just met with Russia.”

“That’ll explain that, then,” France said with a small, overly dramatic sigh. “Come in, boy, come in.”

The hand France placed on his back strayed a bit too low, but America was too tired to notice or to really care, so he let France usher him inside while groping various parts of his body. 

“Oh, _mon petit chou,_ ” France said with a small sigh. “So good to see you!”

“Don’t call me that.” 

“I’m just pleased to see you come to visit me after so long,” France dismissed with a wave of his hand, hand straying over the small of his back, over his ass, and finally curling around his hip and pinning him to France’s side. America gave him a half-hearted elbow to the side but otherwise didn’t do much of anything else. 

“Yeah,” America said and almost sounded apologetic. But America did not apologize. Not easily, at least. And he let France usher him to his parlor, where warm sunshine filtered through soft white curtains, lapping in the breeze.

As much as America would never admit, he actually liked Paris. Sometimes France himself annoyed him to no end, but at least his cities were pretty. Though last time he came to Paris he stepped in more dog shit than he thought was natural, but that was another story entirely. 

“It’s nice to see you, in any case,” France said, then added with a rather loud laugh, “We’re buddies after all! Want some freedom fries?” 

America scratched the back of his neck and looked down, grunting a bit. At least France didn’t seem to get so uptight about things. He remembered why he liked the guy, annoyances aside. France could understand the difference between jokes and seriousness. 

“I’m fine,” America said and cracked a smile as France continued to chuckle at his own joke. “Got any of that weird orange drink you like so much?” 

“Orangina?” France asked and when America nodded his smile widened. “But of course I do!” 

A few moments later found them sitting out on France’s balcony, the bottle of the orange drink sitting between them. It was early morning in France, and it was relaxing to not have to put on façades like he did with Russia and China. Though the relationship with France had been difficult for a while, it seemed to be slowly thawing out, and that was reassuring. Plus, Orangina was delicious, and he didn’t ever feel comfortable enough to drink with Russia or China. France was different. And he only had to slap France’s hand away from his inner thigh three times. 

“So, why were you visiting Russia?” France asked casually, combing his fingers through his hair idly. 

America sighed and stared at the bottom of his cup before leaning over to refill it. “My boss wants me to go around talking to some of the other countries to… you know… try to clear the waters.” 

“Is that so?” France asked, rhetorically. 

“Yeah… he wants to make it better,” America said, swirling his finger along the rim of his glass. “Because, you know, back in 2001, everybody came together and we were unified. And just.” God, he was bad at this, hated to admit he was wrong or weak or lonely. Or that maybe he was beginning to realize that he wasn’t as perfect as he’d once thought he was. “I just got sidetracked because of Iraq and because I’m…”

“Foolish? Stupid? Selfish? Arrogant?” France offered.

America gave him a sidelong glance, eyebrows knitting together. “I was going to say impulsive.” 

“That works, too.” 

France moved to his breast pocket, pulling out a carton of cigarettes. America eyed them warily. “God, France. It’s ten in the morning.” 

France gave him a look, but relented, tucking them back into his breast pocket. America rubbed the spot just above his eye and under his eyebrow with the base of his palm, sighing and nodding his thanks. 

“Anyway,” America continued, rubbing his hands together now because he wasn’t sure what else he should do with them. “Just… my boss told me that I have to be honest with myself. That because of how I was so… stubborn,” he paused and glanced at France to make sure he wasn’t about to throw in his own word choice, “And because of that, I allowed my alliances and friends to drift away.” 

“It happens with all of us from time to time,” France admitted, reaching for his breast pocket again before realizing what he was doing and shifting so he could drape his arm over the back of America’s chair instead. “What matters is that you’re doing your best to fix it, I suppose.” 

“I guess,” America muttered and his eyebrows knitted together. 

France eyed him before crossing his legs, balancing one ankle on his thigh, just above his knee, jiggling his foot a moment before surveying the Paris skyline, old buildings glowing golden in the early morning sun. 

“Something else on your mind?” France asked and America shrugged. “I like to think that perhaps our relationship has moved to a point where we could be able to be honest with one another.” 

“Yeah,” America sighed and eyed France’s hand, rubbing his shoulder gently. “But you know, everybody’s got responsibility in this, and it’s really damn irritating when people don’t meet me halfway.”

“America, _mon cher,_ ” France soothed, clapping the same hand on his shoulder, ceasing the rubbing. “You should know that politics are never that easy. And that once a bad relation has formed, it’s hard to fix that. Anyone on the planet can tell you that.” 

“Yeah well,” America said, looking down and refusing to admit that he felt like he was pouting. “I hate how everybody just so easily dismisses me because I’m me. I’m trying to change, I’m trying to do good. Damn it. I thought with this new boss, things would get easier but it doesn’t seem like anybody likes me any better.” 

“These things take time,” France reassured. “And you did just visit Russia, of all people.” 

America watched France suppress a shiver before saying, “And China.”

“My point exactly. They certainly won’t make you feel the most welcomed,” France said with a shrug. “It’s in their manner. You can’t blame them for being wary and isolated around you.” 

“Fixing relations is supposed to be a joint job, damn it. A joint effort.” 

“It’s hard to put pride aside, America,” France said and America realized dimly that France was stroking the back of his neck, not in his typical touchy-feely manner but more as something akin to comfort. America hated to admit it was kind of nice. “And if someone feels as if they’ve been wronged, it’s understandable that they’ll be distant, defensive.” 

“I guess,” America relented. 

“Just don’t give up,” France continued. “No matter how much you are loved, there will be people who will not like you. And though it may seem like the entire world is against you, there are people, and countries, who know there is more to you than what is, essentially, a stereotype.” 

“You know,” America said, recoiling a bit to give France a rather disbelieving look and swallowing the fact that France, in effect, just gave the same advice as Russia (he wasn’t sure how the blond would react if he shared that information), “When you get past the fact that you’re an idiot, you’re actually pretty smart.” 

France raised one eyebrow. 

“I mean,” America said, backpedalling as his boss’ voice continued to shout in his head _humility, honesty, integrity, and don’t insult your host_. “I mean, you act really… strange, I guess. So I guess I forget you actually know what you’re talking about.”

France curled his hand around America’s chin, drawing him forward with a slow, sultry smirk. “I know many things, it’s true.” 

“Urk,” America said, somewhat unintelligently, before ducking his head to capture the bottle between them and pouring himself a liberal amount of orange juice. 

France, for his part, seemed used to such a reaction and only laughed. “And where are you off to, next?”

“I was thinking Spain, since he’s close by.” 

France nodded. “That’s logical, yes.” His grin widened. “Until then, how about I show you around Paris, yes? I’ll even take you to the Eifel Tower. I know how much you like—what is it—your phallic imagery.” 

America blushed. “I do not.” 

“Of course not,” France said. 

“You’re the one obsessed with things like that.” 

“I am not obsessed, I just have an appreciation.”

“Uh huh.”

France sniffed. “It’s that ridiculous person across the channel who’s utterly obsessed and perverted.”

“Who, England?”

“Who else?” France said, his familiar flair and dramatics reemerging, now that the serious topic of politics and world standings had dissolved away along with the orange juice. The conversation quickly descended into insulting England’s Integrity When He Isn’t Around to Freak Out, but it only lasted for so long. It wasn’t nearly as much fun to make fun of England when he wasn’t around to be pissy about it. (America hoped his boss would forgive some teasing, at least. Especially since France wouldn’t fib about it, he hoped.) 

So in the end the two men went to the Eifel Tower. 

 

\---

 

After seeing France and staying for breakfast and the Eifel Tower, America flew south, to Spain. 

He was sad that he didn’t get to drive, because he liked the French countryside, and the Spanish scenery. But the trip between Paris to Madrid was too long for his frayed nerves. 

_Next time,_ he vowed to himself, and liked the idea of a next time. 

 

\---

 

Spain was still sleeping when he got to his house in Madrid, and so America spent the afternoon in Spain’s house, reading over all the documents and tips his boss had left him in that briefcase. He agonized over it, and tried to pay attention but it was hard. Small steps, he told himself. 

He wished he’d taken a bottle of France’s orange juice. All Spain had in his house was tomato juice which wasn’t very refreshing, at least not for him. 

He scratched his head and dove into his work, reading up all he could. Back home, it wasn’t so much that people hated Europe, his boss had told him, but more that his people refused to acknowledge how important Europe was. (And there were plenty of people who called them elitists, but at this point that word was flung around so much that America almost wondered if he even knew what the word meant.) 

“I know I’ve been dismissive of them in the past,” America muttered to himself and rubbed a hand over his face, sighing through his teeth and trying not to let himself feel as tired as he knew he should be. “And arrogant.” He recalled what France had said earlier in the day and stiffened. “But it isn’t like they’re all a bunch of saints. They only blame me for the bad stuff and don’t bother to acknowledge the good things I’ve done.” 

He looked up at Spain’s ceiling and closed his eyes.

“But I guess I’ve done a lot of bad things? Especially lately.”

“America?” a voice asked in lazy Spanish behind him. 

America swiveled his head around and grinned, easily switching to Spanish as he called a greeting to the other nation. After years living on the same continent as Mexico, and sharing a border, it was only a matter of time before America learned Spanish. Of course, his accent was different from Spain’s (and Spain had spent many years trying to correct him to no avail) but it served well enough for the two to communicate. (And his boss had told him that speaking to the other countries in their language would make them happier. So there was that.) 

Spain yawned loudly until his jaw cracked and then wandered over to where America was sitting on his couch. “How’d ya get in?”

“You forgot to lock your door,” America said with a shrug. 

Spain nodded, as if this was a common occurrence, and it probably was. He swayed through the room, smiling inanely. “I leave it unlocked because sometimes Romano comes over and he gets angry if he has to wait around for me to wake up.” 

“Uh huh,” America said and watched Spain settle in a chair near America. 

“What brings ya here?” 

“Just wanted to talk,” America muttered. 

“About what?” Spain asked, tilting his head back to rest it on the back of his chair, looking up at the ceiling and not looking terribly interested in anything. In fact, he looked like he was all ready for a siesta. 

“… Stuff,” America muttered. 

“Is this about how ya beat me in the Confederations Cup?” Spain said, stifling a yawn. “I understand, America. Beating me two to zero is very impressive but—”

“It’s not about that,” America interrupted, “even if that was totally awesome.”

“Hmmmm,” Spain hummed, not agreement or disagreement. He closed his eyes and his head lolled to his side. 

“Look,” America said. “When my new boss was elected, your boss called him and they talked about all this stuff and just… you know.”

“I remember,” Spain agreed with a smile. “My administration thinks it’d be a good idea if I got along with yours.”

“… Right,” America said, shifting a bit. It was still odd to think that Spain, like China, was doing something for his own benefit and not because he necessarily wanted to. But then again, he reasoned for the hundredth time this trip, he was doing all this to make it easier for his people and country. In the end, they were all out for themselves, and friendships formed were second to themselves. 

_And they all call me selfish,_ he thought bitterly to himself. At least he was honest about his selfishness? That was something, right?

Probably not. 

“Anyway,” America began again. “I know the last few years it’s been kind of stiff between the two of us—” he felt like he’d be saying this to a lot of different people during this trip. He needed a vacation. “—but I want it to get better.” 

“I know ya do, America,” Spain said, voice gentle and his smile seemingly less inane now. “We all know ya do.” 

America wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting as a reply, but that hadn’t been it. He sat, somewhat dumbfounded, on the couch and stared at Spain. Spain leaned forward, planting his feet firmly on the ground and stretching out his back, pushing his hands out forward, towards America. 

“That’s why I said it’d be okay if we took some of the prisoners from Guantanamo Bay, ya know?” Spain’s dopey smile was back, but his words weren’t nearly as asinine. “Everyone knows that you’re working hard to make things better, and that you know ya made mistakes.”

“Yeah…” America began.

“We know you’re sorry,” Spain said, cheerfully enough, “Even if you don’t want to say it.” His grin almost turned tender. “When Romano used to live in my house, he would never apologize but I could tell that he was sorry, because at least for a little while, he’d try to make things better for the house.” 

“Oh,” America started, unsure. 

Spain grinned at him. “You’re my friend, America.”

America stared at Spain, blinked at the country of passion once, in surprise, and then a second time as he tried to clear his mind and wrap his head around the words. Friend. He had to get used to hearing words like that again. And he had to remember, in the future, to do as his boss said. Maybe he could do humble. 

“So…” America began and tried to swallow his nervousness—what the hell, why was he nervous?—and just get on with it. “So, yeah. We’re cool, then?”

Spain stroked his chin as if thinking it over but his wobbling lips betrayed him because a split second later, he was grinning cheerfully at America. 

“Of course we are.” 

America didn’t realize how tense he was until he felt his shoulders sag and his breath release in a relieved sigh. “Okay.”

“Want to go to a club?” Spain asked, checking his watch. “They don’t open until tonight, but you can spend the night if you’d like.” 

“Huh? Oh. Uh. Sure.” 

 

\---

 

America spent the rest of the day sleeping in one of Spain’s spare bedrooms. He was in that strange half-state, where he knew that he was asleep but couldn’t control what happened in his dreams and what the world was doing in real time. 

“What the hell is that guy doing here?” he heard a grumpy voice.

“Ah,” he heard Spain gasp from the hallway, where America’s door was opened to, “Romano! Hello!” 

“What the hell is that guy doing here?” Romano repeated. 

“He came to visit me, isn’t that great?” Spain gushed, loudly, and America shifted in his sleep, trying to summon back the images of his dreams, empty and vague and distant. Beyond his reach. Spain’s voice was loud and infiltrated his thoughts and his dreams. And Romano, though not as loud, was low and grating and penetrating just the same. 

“Tch,” Romano scoffed. “He better be paying you to stay here.” 

“Don’t be silly,” Spain said, laughing. “America is my friend, so he’s always welcomed here.” 

“You’d be friends with worms if they could stand to talk to you,” America heard Romano mutter. “Come on, idiot. He looks totally wiped out.”

“Ah, that’s right. I was going to take him to a club tonight,” Spain said, clapping his hands. “I should wake him.”

“Are you stupid?” Romano scoffed, loudly. “The idiot’s probably dead from jetlag. Let the moron sleep.” 

“Then Romano will have to go with me!” Spain bubbled and America listened to the sound of scuffling as, undoubtedly, Spain dragged Romano off to a club. America was grateful for the Italian’s insistence on letting him sleep. He was dead tired.

He was just tired of everything. 

He slept. 

 

\---

 

It was hot and dry in Turkey when he landed, after a few days of rest in Spain’s house (and a quick hop over to Portugal and Morocco). At this point, America was tired, ragged, and ready to go home. But he also knew he had a promise he needed to fill up, and it wasn’t as if Turkey was a hard ass. 

He liked Turkey’s home, really. The mix of different cultures and influences reminded him of his own home, sometimes. They weren’t the same, far from it, but the blending was something that, while still foreign, was pleasantly familiar to America. Even if his people feared this side of the world, so close to the Middle East and the cluster of all his problems, America genuinely liked everyone (except maybe a few). And as far as the Middle East went, Turkey and Egypt were pretty tame—secular. 

So here he was, going to talk to Turkey. He was tired of politics. He hated these kinds of topics of conversations, always liked to avoid it. And he had strict instructions from his boss _not_ to mention politics with Turkey, if possible. Especially the Armenian issue. His boss warned that if any mention of the word genocide came up, it was guaranteed that relations with Turkey would go into a deep freeze that could quite possibly take a small eternity to thaw out. 

“It’s hot,” America announced when he met with Turkey. 

America couldn’t quite tell his expression behind that mask, but he was grinning widely. “It’s summer.” 

They traveled through Istanbul, towards Turkey’s house. The air conditioner was on, which gave some relief to America’s frazzled nerves. He watched the ancient city pass by his closed window, and felt infinitely young. 

 

\---

 

No, no, no. This was not going as planned. His boss had told him to _not_ talk about politics. Did it count if Turkey was the one to bring it up? And all his attempts to steer the conversation elsewhere had failed? 

Well fuck. 

But Turkey didn’t seem upset by the conversation, but then again… it was hard to tell with that mask on. But he was still grinning at him and lighting a pipe. Why the hell did everybody have to smoke on these kinds of trips? America had only recently kicked the habit himself, and all this smoke was making him crave a cigarette. 

“Your country has all this history, it’s amazing.”

But it seemed that Turkey was deadest on disrupting all his plans. “Islam’s got a rich history here.” 

Did religion count the same as politics here, America wondered. But if it was anything like back home, this, too, was a topic that America, if he were smart, should avoid. But Turkey didn’t sound defensive or like he was digging for a fight, just merely stating a fact, as if remarking on the weather. Turkey was meant to be secular. Was America being tested? Oh God, he was being tested, wasn’t he? Was religion okay to talk about? 

“There’s something for everyone,” America started, slowly, knowing that he was contradicting his country’s wishes but it seemed that Turkey wanted to talk about it, or, maybe, he was testing America, testing to see what the western Christian nation would say to this nation, secular and yet Muslim and straddling two different continents at once. 

“Yep,” Turkey agreed, and smoke curled out from behind his teeth when he grinned. 

America realized, dimly, that Turkey must be waiting for something. 

So America swallowed and tried to not listen to his heart beating. “I owe a lot to it.”

“Oh?” Turkey asked, betraying nothing behind his mask and grinning face. The smoke formed a curtain, clouding the windows and blocking out the thick sunbeams from the midday sky. 

“We all have to change, in this age,” America said, thinking about China, Russia, France, Spain. Thinking about himself, and the people he’d taken for granted, neglected, or dismissed all these years. “But especially me.” 

Turkey remained silent, though the high wattage of his smile seemed to fade to something more thoughtful than before. 

“In the past, I’ve done dumb things,” he said and though he’d said the words so many times in the last few days, the words did not feel rehearsed or generic on his tongue, but just as genuine as they had since the first time he said it. And he hoped that Turkey understood that. “I’ve acted superior to all these other nations and then was insulted when they withdrew from me.” 

Turkey was still silent.

So America continued, “I lost track of what I stood for, for what I wanted. I’ve said and done stupid things, hurtful things. I don’t hate Islam, I don’t hate any of you.” 

Turkey tapped his pipe against the ashtray, and the smoldering remains of tobacco fell and collected in a small pile. Digging through the folds of his clothing, he extracted a tin in which to refill his pipe, but the entire time his eyes did not slide away from America, steadily trained on him. His moves were smooth and calculated, waiting, waiting for what America would say next. Inviting him to continue, silently. 

“I mean, yeah, I’ve got predominately Christian people running around back home,” America continued, fidgeting under such a level stare. “But I’m not a Christian nation. I welcome everyone, and I owe a lot to this side of the world, to people—nations—like you.” 

“Heh,” Turkey chuckled and paused before lifting the pipe back to his lips and inhaling. Then, slowly, with a steady hand, as if he could see the longing in America’s eyes, he offered the pipe to him. “Boy, I think you’re trying to win my heart.” 

America wasn’t sure what to say to that, but he took the smoking pipe from Turkey’s outstretched hand. 

Turkey leaned back, observed him through the slits of his mask, and then said, slowly, thoughtfully. “Now let’s see if you really mean it.” 

 

\---

 

_That went better than I thought it would,_ America thought as he fell asleep that night. 

 

\---

 

“You smell like that guy’s tobacco,” Greece announced when he knocked on the door to his white stone house, overlooking a warm green-blue sea. 

“Huh?” America asked then realized what Greece meant. “Oh yeah, I was visiting Turkey yesterday.”

Greece narrowed his eyes but shrugged. “Are you hungry? My food’s definitely better than his.” 

It was a rare day when America saw Greece acting anything less than lazy, and seeing the barely restrained annoyance at the mention of Turkey was strangely refreshing, and amusing. America couldn’t help it and started grinning widely. 

“Yeah, sure.” 

A short while later found Greece and America sitting on a stone wall, overlooking the marina below, while America stuffed his third of Greece’s _dolmades_ into his mouth. He had no idea what it was but damn if it didn’t taste delicious, and when he told Greece so, the man shrugged nonchalantly but was unable to hide his pleasantly smug expression. 

“Thanks for letting me visit here, anyway,” America said at length. “It’s tiring, to have to visit everybody for political reasons. And you and I are cool, so it’s nice to not have to cater to you.”

“Are you visiting the others simply for catering to them?” Greece asked and his inquisitive olive-colored eyes seemed too knowing. One cat curled against America’s back, purring contently. America absently reached behind him and pet her head, and the purring increased in volume. 

“No,” America admitted, biting the inside of his cheek. “I’m sick of being hated. I want to make things better, easier.”

“You want to be needed,” Greece supplied. 

Something thundered in America’s chest and he realized in that moment that it was true. But that sounded far too needy, far too pathetic, so he didn’t let on that he agreed. Instead he shrugged and made a non-committing grunt from the back of his throat. 

“It’s just annoying when people act like they don’t need me.” 

Greece eyed him, and the wind pushed back his hair away from his olived skin. America felt entirely too hot in his clothing and under the unforgiving Mediterranean sun. 

“I’m the hero, after all!” America proclaimed. “The hero of democracy around the world!” 

America recognized he was slipping back into his arrogance and cockiness, but he was too tired to care. He ate more of Greece’s food, shoving it into his mouth without actually tasting it. All the while, Greece watched and stroked the cat sitting on his leg. He stuffed a hand into his pocket and pulled out a crinkled, dirty, nearly empty pack of cigarettes. America had to suppress his groan upon seeing them—seriously, why so much smoking on this trip?

Greece was silent as he raised the pack to his lips and extracted one long, white stick of tobacco. He inclined the pack towards America, who shook his head. Fiddling in his other pocket, Greece lit up and blew the smoke away from America, away from the water, and away from his cats. The smoke drifted downwind before fading. 

“My mother invented democracy,” Greece offered after a pregnant pause. 

“… She did?” America blinked in surprise, and was unsure where, exactly, Greece intended to go with this. 

Greece gave him the kind of look that suggested that he was genuinely surprised that America didn’t know this fact. He nodded. “Rome stole it from her. And I suppose you’d be the one credited for perfecting it, but… even you are not without your faults, my friend.” 

America frowned.

Greece peered at him, cigarette perched precariously between his lips. “And the sooner you accept that, the sooner you can grow.” 

“Yeah… yeah,” America said, hating to be lectured but knowing that Humility and the Ability to Listen were really important right now (his boss had drilled it into his head plenty of times at this point). “I just want to fix all this crap I’ve messed up these last few years, you know?”

“More like decades,” Greece mused and at America’s stricken look he gave him an apologetic smile and patted his cat absently. “It’s your habit, America, to want to play the hero. What you fail to realize is that not everyone wants you as their hero. Many want to be able to solve their own problems with their own strength.”

“But I’m awesome!” America protested. 

Greece’s smile was still in place and it almost reminded him of the smile England used to give him as child, when he’d been humoring America. Great. 

“A hero who is self-centered is not nearly as readily accepted, either,” Greece said, and America fought back the urge to flinch—he _was_ thankful for Greece’s honesty, but it was still strange to have these things that have always lurked at the back of his mind suddenly be thrown at his face. 

“I know,” America admitted.

“It’s good that you’ve grown more self-aware,” Greece said and it wasn’t condescending or demeaning, just a mere appreciation for this fact. America sighed. 

“I just don’t like to think that nobody needs me or wants me anymore,” America admitted and instantly felt foolish. Greece didn’t say anything, merely watched him. So America continued, words tumbling out like water, “I hate to think that this is the end of me, that I’m not as important or great as I think I am—and it’s good to have confidence, right? I know recently it’s been bordering on overconfidence and I’ve alienated a lot of people because of it… but… but I don’t want to—”

To be left behind. 

America bit his lip.

Greece watched him levelly. “All things must end.”

That hadn’t been the answer America had wanted, though deep down he knew he’d expected it. Still, it didn’t keep him from looking stricken. 

Greece, for his part, looked apologetic. “I’ve watched many nations rise and fall, America. It can’t be helped. But just because you may fall, doesn’t mean it’s the end. It doesn’t mean that someone will not miss you, or need you. Or want you.” 

America stared at him, and Greece shrugged. 

“This is the nature of the world.” 

“… I guess.” 

Greece’s smile was light, thoughtful, as he added. “I don’t think this is the end, America. You may have fallen a bit, you may be heading towards a lull… but you aren’t gone yet. And there are people out there who need you and want you. If not someone like us, at the very least your people need and want you. And that should count for something.” 

Greece scratched behind his ear and looked out over the marina, where white sailboats swayed with the blue waters of the Mediterranean Sea. 

“There’s nothing wrong with being patriotic, and being proud of who you are and where you come from,” Greece told him. “Just remember that you are not inherently better than anyone else.” 

“… Yeah,” America agreed. 

They sat together in silence for the rest of the afternoon. 

 

\---

 

“Ah,” Japan said, sliding his door open when he saw who it was at his door. He smiled kindly. “Mr. America.”

“Hey, Japan.” He rubbed the back of his head. “I was wondering…”

“I have some new games for my Wii, yes,” Japan said, casual, and stepping back to let America inside. This time, America remembered to remove his shoes before stepping up onto the wooden flooring from the foyer.

“Hope they’re not as impossible to play as Cooking Mama,” America said with a grin. “That game’s hard when you aren’t fluent in Japanese!” 

Japan smiled. “We shall see, won’t we?” 

 

\---

 

“You look like shit,” England announced when he opened the door and saw America. 

“Hello to you, too,” America muttered, but knew he probably looked just as haggard as he felt. 

England rolled his eyes and stepped away from the door, allowing the other nation inside. The inside of England’s house was cool and comfortable, darkened curtains drawn closed to shield out the streetlights dotting the roads outside. 

“It’s been a long few weeks,” America sighed, flopping down into the armchair he always flopped down into whenever he visited England. England eyed him warily before kicking at his feet. America obliged, removing his shoes. England kicked them away towards the door before sinking down onto the chair beside America’s. 

“So what brings you here?”

“Politics!” America said with a barely suppressed scoff, waving his hand dismissively. “I visited so many nations I feel like my brain’s going to ooze out of my ears.”

“What brain?” England asked and smirked when America sent him a glare. 

“Har har,” America said. “So funny, I forgot to laugh.”

“You said ‘har har’,” England pointed out. He chuckled to himself and ignored when America threatened to hit him in the face. 

“Shut up.”

England, still looking smugly triumphant, asked, “And what politics bring you here?” 

“You know,” America said vaguely. “Boss wants me to make sure you know that I’m changing and I’ve made mistakes and I’m going to try and do better in the future and I need to new things and fix things and… yeah. That’s about it.”

“How very abrupt of you.”

“You try saying the exact same thing to a bunch of nations in the span of two weeks. I’m beat.” 

“Don’t I feel special,” England muttered, brushing stray dust off his chair arm. “To receive the same speech in a rush of a run-on sentence that everyone else received.” 

America wrinkled his nose. “Don’t do that.” 

England shrugged. “You don’t have to be here to prove anything to me. I already know.” He pursed his lips. “Is that all you wanted to say?” 

“I guess,” America said, eyeing England. 

England nodded. “Then it’s fine. You should get back home and get some rest. You do look like hell.” 

“But I mean,” America said, sitting up a bit straighter and looking earnestly towards England. “It is important to me, England. Our relationship and alliance is important to me.” 

“So is any other relationship that doesn’t revolve around hatred for you,” England said logically. 

America cringed. “But you’ve always been there, through it all. Even when I’m out there fucking up a lot, you stick by me. Even if you get angry and annoyed and you don’t want to do it, you were there. Through it all.”

“Yes, and didn’t I pay for it,” England muttered.

“Huh?”

England shook his head.

America frowned. “And I know I don’t say it a lot, but I… it was nice, to know that you would be there, if I needed you.” 

England’s eyes narrowed and then he looked away with a small shrug. 

“And I want it to stay like that.” 

England bit back a small scoff of a laugh and shook his head, looking as if he disbelieved but didn’t voice any objecting opinion. When he looked up at America, his lips hinted at an almost apologetic smile. 

“England?” America asked, unsure whether he liked that expression. 

“My people and allies think that my future lies with Europe, not with you,” England said softly and turned away so he wouldn’t see America’s stricken look. 

“I… what?” America asked, eyes wide. 

England watched him, frowning. “It’s not to say that my people don’t like yours. More than half of them see you favorably.” 

“My people like you, too,” America protested.

England nodded. “But it’s not the same as seeing a future with this alliance.” 

“But it’s special!” America protested and hated how he sounded like a child. 

England sighed, low and deep and looking like he was deflating. “I know, America.” 

“So why—”

England looked as if he were about to speak before he shook his head and looked up at the ceiling. “If you don’t know, there’s no point in saying it.” 

“What, England—”

The other nation waved his hand dismissively. “Don’t worry, America. There are too many links between us for our alliance to merely disappear. It’d be unheard of, practically impossible.” 

America, though knowing England was right, couldn’t help but feel like the nation was humoring him. He sighed loudly through his teeth, looking annoyed. England returned his look with an equally miffed expression before blowing out a low stream of air and adjusting his tie, tightening it around his neck. 

“Hey…” America began as a thought struck him. “You want me, don’t you?” 

“I _beg_ your pardon,” England exclaimed, face turning red from surprised anger. 

“I mean,” America said, back tracking. “Back… before. You didn’t want to let me go, right? You fought to try and keep me and even though you loss you were too stubborn to give up.” 

England’s eyes narrowed and he crossed his arms. “I don’t think I want to talk about this.” 

“But you wanted to keep me, didn’t you?” America insisted. 

“I don’t want to talk about this.”

“Come on, England,” America said, the laughed. “Too proud to admit that I’m so awesome you couldn’t just let me go?” 

England glared at him. “It isn’t like that at all.”

“Then how is it?” 

England stared at him. “You were a colony. You provided income for the empire, and the last thing I needed was to show I’d gone soft. If I’d let you be free, all my colonies would have wanted independence and it’d be nothing but trouble.” 

America pursed his lips, and hated how he somehow hadn’t expected that answer. He should have. 

“I wanted to keep you merely because it would have been a pain to deal with everyone else,” England said, keeping his arms crossed defensively and sliding his eyes away from America. “Though I suppose in the end it doesn’t matter. The empire fell anyway.” 

America puzzled over this a moment, and somehow knew that, at least deep down, there must have been personal feelings involved. America could remember his revolution, remember his feelings of betrayal and frustration at someone he’d cared for. That was not something easily forgotten.

He and England stayed in a strong silence for a long moment. America watched England and the other country, growing tired of the stare, looked away and moved towards his kitchen. America trailed after him, watched as England fetched a kettle and set about preparing tea for himself. They didn’t say anything more on the subject for a long moment, though America’s mind lingered.

He shrugged, though, accepting the reasoning. They were nations first, so their reasoning had to be selfish like this. Right? 

“England…” America began after the kettle whistled and England poured himself a cup of earl grey. He fiddled around a moment before pulling out a packet of instant coffee and set about brewing a cup for America, much to the American’s surprise. “Do you think I’m falling, too?” 

England slanted him with a hard, puzzled look. “Hm?”

“I was talking to Greece… he said that eventually we all fall. Do you think I’m falling now?” 

England sighed low, picked up his teacup after handing America his mug, and moved away from the kitchen. Frowning, America followed after him. 

The other nation leaned back against his desk, frowning thoughtfully and turning over America’s words, weighing his options for the best answer. He shrugged one shoulder, dusted his hands against his pant legs when he straightened, and moved towards America a moment, looking at him. 

“You rose very quickly,” England confessed. “Very.” 

“I know,” America said. “But—”

“Let me finish,” England reprimanded and America fell silent, trying to be patient and humble and to listen. It was hard, especially with someone like England who always made America want to protest. England continued, “The world is having a hard time right now, not just you. Remember that whatever issues you face now, most of are facing in harsher quantities. Do I think you’re falling?” He surveyed America, traced the line of his face with a thoughtful frown. “I don’t know. I think perhaps you’re being knocked down to a new level, but I don’t think you’re coming apart at the seams, the very fabric of your being unwinding or whatever foolishness your conservatives are spouting.” 

America sighed through his nose and only answered when he was sure England was done. “Thanks.” 

“Of course,” England said, looking away and most certainly not blushing. He picked up his teacup and contented himself with taking a sip.

“And… you want to have an alliance now, don’t you?” America pressed. 

England sighed, looked resigned a moment downing a large gulp of his tea, ignoring the way it burned his tongue. “Yes, America.” 

America breathed a sigh of relief and missed England’s softly muttered _but you still don’t get it completely._

 

\---

 

When he made it back to his capital, he spent three days just sleeping and being lazy. The air, the faces, the buildings—it all seemed familiar again, and he knew he was right at home. Outside his house, there were people with problems, his people were struggling and suffering and still trying to do their best. And he believed in them, and wanted to make it better for them. 

When he felt up for it, he called Cuba. He’d been avoiding the phone call for weeks. 

“Yeah, what?” Cuba asked, his voice scratchy and distant over the telephone line. “What do you want, America?”

“Uh,” America said and realized he wasn’t sure how to approach this. “To talk.”

“Hah,” Cuba laughed and he could picture the man scoffing at the ceiling and rolling a cigar between his fingers. His voice sounded muffled, meaning the cigar had found its way to his mouth, and was currently being chewed between his teeth. 

“Cause, you know, my boss wants to find common ground, build bridges, and all that,” America said, shifting. “He wants all of us to talk. To maybe negotiate something.” 

“You know I want to believe you,” Cuba said. “But… well… you’re you.” 

“Yeah,” America agreed and frowned. He gripped the telephone tighter. “I know.”

“Hah,” Cuba scoffed again before hanging up. 

 

\---

 

“And then he hung up on me!” America whined to Canada later that day, lying on Canada’s hammock, watching the street as if he expected Cuba to come strolling along so that America could cheerfully kick his nose in. 

“Oh,” Canada said, politely. “How distressing.”

“I know!” America whined and tilted his head back to glare at the top of the overhang covering Canada’s porch, missing or choosing to ignore his brother’s lack of enthusiasm and sympathy. He swung the hammock petulantly and Canada watched him from his porch chair. 

“Things like that take time.”

“I know, I know. Basically everybody’s told me the same thing these last few weeks. It’s crazy. I get it. People don’t want to fight with me and they have confidence in my new boss, but they’re still wary. Blah blah blah.” 

“Hm,” Canada said quietly. 

“You still like me, though, right? I mean, you basically have to. You’re my brother and all that.” 

Canada laughed. “It was kind of difficult for a while, but I think it’ll be alright.” 

America eyed him. “That’s what basically everybody said. I know, I know. The last few years have been hard and I’ve done stupid things. But I’m doing my best to change.”

“We know,” Canada said with a wave of his hand. He pushed America’s hammock so that it started rocking again and America’s grin turned a bit giddy and childish as he shifted his body to invite more swinging. 

“Good.” 

 

\---

 

**Notes:**  
(Holy crap, so many footnotes.) 

\- USA relations with: [China](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sino-American_relations), [Russia](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Russia%E2%80%93United_States_relations), [Cuba](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cuba%E2%80%93United_States_relations), [Turkey](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Turkey%E2%80%93United_States_relations), [The United Kingdom](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/United_Kingdom%E2%80%93United_States_relations), [Canada](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Canada%E2%80%93United_States_relations), [France](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/France_%E2%80%93_United_States_relations), [Greece](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Greece_%E2%80%93_United_States_relations), [Spain](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Spain%E2%80%93United_States_relations), and [Japan](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/US-Japan_relations).The main thing between all these relations? They’ve suffered terribly the last eight years but there’s a newfound hope that perhaps the current administration will help some. Despite that, countries are wary and cautious in regards to the United States, which has broken many promises and continues to spout out egocentric ideals among its citizens and politicians while taking current alliances for granted. (And [Obama has pledged](http://www.breitbart.com/article.php?id=D97B1KQ80&show_article=1) to help create and repair [ relations with Europe.](http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2009/04/03/france-to-take-one-guanta_n_182802.html) )

\- America’s visits in this fic are not in chronological order to how Obama and his administration have been meeting with other countries, but I wanted to write it in some semblance of order, and chose the order of lessons that the countries teach him in America’s journey towards more self awareness. And I figured that America would move independent to his boss, so. 

\- [US and China coordination in regards to global climate change.](http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=106722329) They’re both the largest contributors of carbon dioxide and other climate changing gases in the world, and at the rate that China is growing and producing, it will soon overtake the US in amount of CO2 produced—more in one year than the US has produced in its entire existence! 

\- I figured that the US would have some rudimentary language skills, though mostly he’d rely on countries knowing English to communicate. Though I thought it’d be interesting if he, in an attempt to be more humble, would try to communicate in the other languages. I can only speak English and really crappy French, though, so I had to make do with just giving America some crappy grammatical abilities. I hope nobody’s insulted by that, somehow! 

\- [US President Barack Obama seeks new start with Russia.](http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=106285838&ft=1&f=1001) This is actually what sparked this fic in the first place, I was listening to this story on NPR (national public radio) and they had a Russian politician (I believe? I can’t remember who it was) saying that Russia didn’t have any friends and wanted the US as a friend, because it could be troublesome otherwise. And he ended his segment with “we are not friends but… I do not know what we are.” Oooh, Hetalia. Only you can make current events shippy. 

\- [Obama’s speech in Turkey](http://www.time.com/time/world/article/0,8599,1889837,00.html) and partially because of his speeches in both Turkey and in Egypt and regarding middle eastern policy, [for the first time a US president is more popular than Bin Laden in the Middle East.](http://community.livejournal.com/ontd_political/3641739.html) Though that only means that Obama has an approval rating of around 30 percent… still better than nothing! 

\- [The Confederations Cup](http://dailycontributor.com/usa-vs-spain-confederations-cup-live-stream/5717/) is a football/soccer cup played with the countries of the world. According to the Fifa rankings, Spain was rated number one while the USA was rated as number fourteen. Spain, obviously, was expected to be the winner of the semi-final match. But the US beat them two to zero, surprisingly enough. (Only to be beat by Brazil in the final.) 

\- Dolmades: grapevine leaves stuffed with rice and vegetables, meat is also often included.

\- Representation between the personified countries may not directly reflect the actual relations of today. This is partially do, in part, because seeing as how I live in the USA and haven’t visited these other countries, my perception of relations depends solely on how my society presents them, Wikipedia articles, hearsay, and just assuming how Hetalia characters would interact in a modern setting. And I thought that relations between the Hetalia characters as characters may differ from their relationships as countries, too. (lol epically long disclaimer?) 


End file.
